


overcome by shame, can i ever change?

by see_addy_write



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Bar fights, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unreliable Narrator, implied depression/mental health issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/see_addy_write/pseuds/see_addy_write
Summary: Five times Alex stopped Michael from doing something stupid, & one time Michael returned the favor.
Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin & Isobel Evans, Michael Guerin & Max Evans, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 22
Kudos: 105





	1. beer & bar fights

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys, long time no see! i've been working on this fic for what feels like forever & i just need to start posting, so i'm going to post every segment as a 'chapter' on here for now, but i'll probably consolidate when it's done. 
> 
> this is post S1 finale, so michael's not in a great place, & this fic mentions, but does not dwell on, some pretty heavy stuff, including depression, grief, PTSD, a character not eating (not an eating disorder, but more related to grief/depression), & mistreatment by a police officer. (again, nothing graphic!) if you want more information, feel free to comment or come ask me on tumblr @ seeaddywrite. i've tried to tag everything appropriate, but if you think this warrants additional tags or warnings, please let me know. as always, if this isn't your thing, that's okay! take care of yourself & go find something else to read. 
> 
> title is a play on song lyrics from Save Yourself by My Darkest Days, which fits the tone of this story pretty well. 
> 
> as always, i promise a happy ending for our boys, but the angst will stick around for a while.

The first time Alex stops him from going too far, Michael’s standing over a bleeding redneck in the middle of the Wild Pony, fist raised to land the blow that would cross the line between ‘drunk and disorderly’ and ‘assault.’ It’s a line he’s usually careful to avoid — he’s accepted his role as the town drunk and has no problem throwing a few punches when they’re well-deserved, but Michael has never wanted to end up in a cell for longer than one night.

But less than a week after he’d watched the prison holding his _mother_ explode less than twenty yards in front of him, Michael’s no longer thinking about the consequences of his actions. He’s stuck in that moment, watching it happen over and over, and even the two full bottles of acetone-laced whiskey he’s consumed aren’t enough to end the cycle. Instead, he’s just light-headed as the grief, the _guilt_ , he’s been trying so desperately to suppress begins to morph in his chest. Maybe he would’ve been able to handle it, or at least leave town before he lost his mind, if someone hadn’t bumped into him, splashing a wave of Max’s favorite beer all over the back of his unwashed t-shirt.

Unwanted images flood Michael’s mind, brought on by sense memory he hadn’t even realized existed. Max, shooting beer cans out of the sky with a backwards baseball cap and a wide grin. Max, sitting across from Michael at one of the stupid high school parties Isobel dragged them to, that same beer in his curled fingers, only half-consumed because Max had always been afraid of what would happen if he got too drunk to control himself in public. Max, sitting at the firepit in front of Michael’s trailer, a pyramid of beer cans to one side of his chair and the perpetual tension in his shoulders absent for _once_ as he and Michael stared silently up at the stars, both asking questions the universe refused to answer.

Michael blinks rapidly, determinedly ignoring the sting in his eyes, and gives up on trying to hold himself in check. The surrender is all the impetus Michael’s grief needs to change completely, and the moment he regains his balance, he whirls on the man behind him, ignoring the slurred apologies to shove him, hard. He’s conscious of eyes on him — bystanders and bartenders alike. Maria is by the door, and vaguely, Michael hears her calling his name, telling him to cool off, but her voice just adds to the maelstrom raging inside him. He’s been using Maria, looking to her for distraction and something easy, when everything else in his life is fraught with pain and complication, but it’s not working anymore, and the guilt of knowing that he’s going to hurt her only adds to the weight he labors beneath.

“Man, what the fuck is your problem?” Michael’s victim demands, hitching up his worn Wranglers and squaring his shoulders in challenge. “I said I was sorry!” 

Words are beyond Michael now, and even if he could find them, he wouldn’t waste one on this man. He simply lashes out, kicking the man’s knees out from under him hard enough that his skull strikes the wood floor with an echoing thud. The alcohol makes it hard to maintain his own balance after the sudden movement, but his misdirected fury has burned off the worst of the buzz, and Michael keeps his footing. He lunges again, blind in his determination to make someone else hurt as much as he does in that moment, and his opponent gets to his feet just in time to save his nose from being broken by the heel of Michael’s shoe. He bellows in outrage and lands a punch of his own. Pain sparks along Michael’s cheek, but it’s barely noticeable in comparison to the invisible, gaping wound in his chest and doesn’t slow him down in the slightest. 

His arm draws back, muscles taught, fingers clenched. There’s a voice in the back of his head that sounds painfully like Max’s lectures every time he entered the Sheriff’s office to find Michael waiting for him in a cell. _You’re better than this, Michael. One of these days I’m not going to be able to stop you from being sent to a real jail — and we both know you don’t belong there._

Max was right, to an extent. He isn’t here to stop Michael from being sent anywhere now … but any question of whether Michael belonged in a prison died with the mother he failed to save. Prison is the _least_ of what he deserves. 

Voices, some familiar, some not, add to the cacophony of emotional noise in his head, but none of them matter enough to stop him. None of them even register, really, aside from grating on Michael’s ears. 

In the end, it’s one word that stops him -- his name, only his name, said so evenly that Michael shouldn’t have even been able to pick it out of the noise of the crowd. 

“ _Guerin_.” 

A steady hand clamps around Michael’s wrist, familiarity evident in the touch. There’s no hesitation, no tremble or sign of fear -- just the slide of callouses against the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, warm and anchoring in a way Michael’s never quite understood. He allows the hand to push his arm down to his side, to spin him around until he’s looking straight into Alex Manes’ too-solemn face that he can’t mistake, not even drunk on acetone and a surplus of emotion. 

Stunned, Michael stares at his ex … _something,_ because ‘boyfriend’ is never going to be the right word to describe Alex, and ‘lover’ makes their affair sound like something more than it was. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the night Max killed Noah, and Michael can’t imagine why Alex is here, stopping him from fucking up again, when he could be literally anywhere else, where he wouldn’t have to deal with Michael and his bullshit. 

The thought, and the guilt that rises like bile in his throat, kickstarts him from staring to action. Michael wrenches out of the hold, but makes no move to advance upon either Alex or his earlier opponent. Any urge to do violence is gone, leaving him feeling hollow and empty. His wrist burns where Alex’s hand had been, not from pain, but from the absence of the touch, and Michael hates himself even more for wishing Alex would reach out again. 

“I think you’ve had enough,” Alex tells him calmly, and nods toward the exit to the bar. He’s wearing a leather jacket, Michael notes distractedly, and his hair’s gotten longer. Just slightly out of regulation parameters, whereas before, it would’ve been cut at least a week ago to avoid that. Alex is getting on with his life, moving away from the military rules and routines impressed upon him for years, and Michael can’t help but resent that Alex couldn’t have made that decision when it was possible for Michael to move on with him. 

But resentment and heartbreak pales in comparison to the grief and anger that have taken root in his chest, so Michael stops trying to think and allows the light-headed, overheated feeling of over-indulgence to lessen it all. But even then, Michael’s not drunk enough to miss the softness in Alex’s eyes where they linger on him, nor the hesitance in his body language as he reaches out to rest a careful hand on Michael’s shoulder. 

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” he offers, and the kindness is almost unnerving when Michael expects the opposite. 

“I --” Someone’s bound to have called the police, Michael thinks, even as he tries to slow his racing mind in order to answer. He knows he can’t just go home. He’s got to answer for what he’s done — that guy hadn’t even done anything other than make Michael remember things he didn’t want to, he’s got to —

“Kyle’s handling it,” Alex says, interrupting Michael’s painstaking thought process. It takes him a minute to realize that he’s been speaking aloud, and Alex’s grip on his shoulder has tightened in concern. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but Valenti is standing in front of the guy with the bump on his head, arms crossed and a scowl on his face severe enough to keep him from coming at Michael to blacken his other eye. 

“Michael? Are you okay?” 

The laugh in response to such a stupid question is short and bitter, and makes his nose ache where he’d been struck. Michael nods anyway, an automatic, ingrained response from years of pretending that nothing could touch him. He flicks his curls out of his swollen eye with a clumsy hand, trying to focus on Alex. Apparently, his reaction hadn’t been particularly reassuring. Not if Alex’s wide eyes and thin lips are any indication. 

Great. Now he’s scaring Alex, like standing him up and betraying him hadn’t been enough. Michael inhales sharply, trying to summon the strength to apologize, to tell Alex that he’s fine, that he should go and stop letting Michael trample all over his heart, but Alex speaks first.

“No one’s arresting you tonight, Guerin. Sheriff Valenti knows about what happened to Max, and —” 

Michael shoves away from Alex abruptly and pretends not to see the flash of hurt that crosses Alex’s face before he schools his expression. He hates seeing it, hates hurting Alex, but that’s all he can do lately, it seems. Hurt the people he cares about. Maria. Isobel. Alex. Even Liz. He’s pushed them all away and hidden behind the tall, thorny walls of his own pain. And the walls have grown so tall, so labyrinthine, that even Michael himself can’t escape them now. Hearing his brother’s name is too much on top of everything else, and no matter how his heart screams for him to burrow into Alex’s chest and beg for forgiveness, for comfort, Michael’s not nearly drunk enough to believe he deserves either. 

The crowds part around him as he moves gracelessly toward the bar’s exit. Maria holds the door for him, tries to say something, but Michael just pushes past her and out into the night. 

No one comes after him. 


	2. hope vs. reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how it happened but this one is literally double the word count of the first part. whoops? more hopeful ending this time around, but arguably angstier subject matter. heed the tags, please, & take care of yourselves.

Michael’s fucked up a thousand times since Max’s death, but the next time Alex has to step in is the one he’s most ashamed of. He hasn’t slept in what feels like weeks, and when he got dressed that morning, his belt no longer had enough holes to keep his jeans where they belonged. There’s no mirror in the tiny trailer bathroom, but he can imagine all too well what he looks like: pale and gaunt, with a half-healed black eye and shadows ringing the unmarred one.

He doesn’t remember the last time he showered — he thinks it was the last time Isobel showed up at his door, make-up running down her cheeks and a bag of breakfast food in one had as she tries to dab at the tears with the other. Michael didn’t bother to ask why she was crying or try to offer her any comfort — he didn’t have the energy, and he knew it would be meaningless, anyway. Missing Max struck them both at different times, in different ways, and nothing really made it better except time. 

Instead, he’d allowed her to drag him from his bed and push him into the shower, let her feel that she was looking after him, at least a little. Michael knows it’s not enough, knows he owes her more than this, but he’s barely holding himself together. Getting out of bed and allowing her to share his space without pushing her away is all he can offer, and Isobel seems to understand that. Her visits are always spaced out, giving him plenty of time to brace himself for the next one, and she’s started to call first, which Michael appreciates more than he has the words for. He wants her around, hates being alone — but he hates the thought that he could lash out and hurt Isobel even more. 

It’s almost ironic, after he’s worked so hard to prevent it, that Michael does exactly that. 

“I don’t understand you, Michael,” Isobel says shrilly, pacing around the rocky expanse surrounding his firepit, arms crossed and green eyes narrowed in frustration. Alex and Liz are standing a ways away, lingering by the SUV they’d all arrived in less than fifteen minutes ago, and Michael refuses to let the distance bother him. Any chance of something between himself and Alex ended at Caulfield, and he and Liz have never been friends. They’d worked together, a partnership born of necessity, and it absolutely doesn’t bother him that she seemed almost anxious around him, now. It _doesn’t_. 

“I just told you we have a chance to bring Max back to us, and all you have to say is _no_?” 

Gone are the days of Isobel living in Max’s oversized sweatshirts and forgetting to care about her hair and makeup; today, she’s wearing a fitted dress and her hair has been carefully brushed and parted to best show off her flawless complexion. Hope has made an impact on more than her appearance, though — Isobel’s iron backbone is back, as well as her fiercely protective nature, and Michael desperately wishes she’d found it without setting herself up to fall again. 

Michael won’t share in her naivete. He’s too scientifically minded to believe that a couple of desperate twenty-somethings can cure death when no one, no matter how motivated, has managed it in millions of years. No one except for fucking _Max_ , who’d killed himself in the process. And no matter what Liz says, no matter how many new serums or insane plans she concocts, that’s not going to change. Max has been gone for nearly two months now, and there is no bringing him back. He chose sainthood over his family, sacrificed his life for Rosa’s, and abandoned Michael and Isobel — they’ve all just got to learn to live with that. 

The bottle in his hand is already too light, but Michael gulps the acetone anyway, refusing to allow his grief to take the foothold Isobel’s presenting with her hope. He just looks at her and shakes his head again, unwilling to waste words or energy on an argument. Changing Isobel’s mind takes an act of god at the best of times, and these are the worst. Even drunk and barely functioning, Michael’s not stupid enough to take on Isobel’s hard-headed determination.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Isobel demands, her eyes narrowing on the bottle in his hands. “This is Max we’re talking about. You know, our _brother_? You can’t possibly be pissed enough at him to want him dead!” Her voice cracks on the last word, and Michael’s breath catches in his chest. He’s been accused of some pretty terrible things, lately — Maria had hurled a bar glass at his head and accused him of using her just a few days prior — but wanting Max dead? That hurts enough to permeate the boundary of comfortable numbness he’s been building for the last month. 

“Is this still about what happened with Rosa?” she continues, stalking close enough for Michael to see the furious, desperate gleam in her eyes. “You still blame him for making you cover up what really happened? You want to punish him so much that you’re going to let him die?” 

The anger that builds in him is different than the emotion that spurs him to bar fights and drunken stupidity. It builds in him like a living thing, writhing and demanding an escape, and Michael doesn’t know if it’s because this is _Isobel_ making these accusations — Isobel, who he trusts and loves more than almost anyone on this god-forsaken planet, or just because he’s been bottling his emotions for too long, but his powers react. The bottle in his hand explodes, causing a shower of glass shards to fall to the dirt, glinting wetly in the dim light from his airstream. 

Isobel jumps at the explosion, but doesn’t back off. She’s seen him lose control one too many times to believe that she’s in any danger — even now, somehow, she trusts that Michael would never hurt her, and he desperately wants that to be true. But there have been one too many unprovoked fights, one too many nights in lock-up, one too many fear-filled glances from strangers, for Michael to trust himself. He’s a canon with a lit fuse; it’s only a matter of time before the right spark hits the gunpowder and sets him off. 

“He’s already dead, Isobel,” Michael says flatly, afraid that if he shows any emotion at all, he’ll break into as many pieces as that damned bottle. “He’s dead, and we can’t change it. There’s no point in trying.” He levers himself slowly out of the plastic folding chair he’s been sitting in and takes a step toward his sister, but stops before he gets any closer. “I’m not telling you not to try. Do what you think you have to. But I’m not going to be a part of it.” 

He turns away, starting back toward the door of his trailer, but Isobel isn’t done. “Max wouldn’t have ever given up on you!” she yells, and though their connection is weak, buried beneath walls carefully constructed to keep each other out of their heads, he can feel her fury. Isobel had come to him looking for her unwavering ally, for the brother who had never once let her down, and she hated the man she saw instead. Michael’s breath catches in his suddenly-raw throat, and his legs stall mid-stride. Isobel hates him, he thinks, and the thought is so unbelievable, so horrific, that Michael almost laughs. “Max would be in that damned cave, trying to save you every day! He would’ve done anything to get you back, and you won’t even _try_!”

The words aren’t the problem. It’s what Isobel doesn’t say, the insinuated message that comes across loud and clear and hurts more than if she’d smacked him across the face. He blinks, sucking back the wave of despair and allowing it to turn to anger — anger, at least, doesn’t make him feel so damned hollow. 

“Why don’t you just say what you really mean, Isobel?” Michael snaps, clenched fingers trembling with barely suppressed pain-turned-fury. “We all know what you’re thinking, anyway — you wish it was me, instead.”

Isobel’s mouth falls open, and her face drains of all color. The horror inherent in her expression might have been gratifying, might have soothed some of the ache in his gut, had he not been living on acetone and alcohol for so long — had he had a decent night’s rest in weeks. As it is, Isobel’s upset only serves as fuel for the fire raging inside of him. 

None of this should come as a surprise. Isobel and Max have been together for their entire lives, from the moment they came out of the pods to the moment Max foolishly thought he could play God. Not physically together, no, but connected in a way that Michael’s always envied. The Evans siblings had always been tangled together mentally, part of each other in a way that never included Michael — even after he’d finally gotten back to Roswell and rejoined their lives. So it makes sense, really, that Isobel would wish for Max over Michael, that she’d resent him for living when she’d lost an integral part of herself. It shouldn’t rip him apart the way it does, not when Michael knows he’d done plenty to put distance between them over the years, some of it even on purpose. 

But _shouldn’t_ doesn’t matter much, because it _does_. 

“Michael,” Isobel says, her voice a tiny, broken thing. “No. No, I would never — you have to know I don’t —”

Raw power erupts from Michael’s body, suddenly unable to be contained. It’s like a shockwave with him as the epicenter, and it knocks the trailer off-center. The chairs around the fire pit, a few cars waiting to be junked, parts and odds and ends of old vehicles all fly backward, away from Michael, only to crash to the ground in an ugly cacophony. A headache builds immediately behind his eyes at the use of power, but it’s still there, building around him, wholly outside of his control. The bottle holding everything he’s been feeling is shattered beyond repair, and there’s no pushing it all back inside. Fear flickers beneath the fire burning in his chest — he can’t stop, can’t reign himself in, and Isobel is still directly in his crosshairs.

“Michael,” she says softly, looking at him with undisguised concern. There’s no real fear in her eyes, thank God, but the regret and tenderness is nearly as bad on his raw, fraying nerves. “I promise, that’s not true. You’re my family, and I love you. I didn’t mean —”

“Yeah,” he barks hoarsely. “You did.” 

She shakes her head firmly, and he feels the press of her against his thoughts, an attempt to reassure him that she’s never once wished him dead. But there’s no room for _Michael_ in his own head, let alone Isobel, and he shoves her out. There are razor-sharp words on his tongue, and his power is barely contained; there’s no doubt he’s going to hurt Isobel with whatever comes next, he can see it as clearly as he can see his breath in the cold night air. His power builds again, ignoring the shrieking agony from his head and stomach ( _and his conscience),_ and there’s nothing he can do but let it explode.

But before the ragged edges of his control snap completely, Alex is standing in front of him, close enough to touch, but far enough away that Michael feels the distance in his battered soul. 

“Hey,” he says calmly, chin raised so that his even gaze meets Michael’s burning eyes, as irritatingly cool and collected as ever. He seems to sense that Michael can’t take worry or pity right now, that warmth or tenderness only makes his skin crawl when he hates himself so much. The indifference in his expression is a double-edged sword, though — Michael wants to see his own desperate affection reflected in those familiar eyes as much as the thought of it makes him want to claw at his flesh. “I’ve got you, Guerin,” he promises, and lifts a hand to rest cautiously on Michael’s tense shoulder. 

The maelstrom of undirected energy in Michael’s chest ceases instantly at the touch, and he sways with exhaustion. Nausea erupts low in his gut, reminding him that he’s used his power several times too many on any empty stomach and virtually no sleep, but he swallows convulsively, keeping it at bay -- at least for the moment. 

It doesn’t occur to him to question why something as simple as Alex’s hand on his shoulder banishes even his most monstrous impulses; he knows how he feels about Alex Manes, even when he won’t -- _can’t_ \-- act on it. Maybe if he weren’t so tired, he’d panic about the sway the other man still holds over him, about the fact that he can’t put those feelings to bed, even after all of this time, no matter how many times Alex leaves him to fall and crash into the dirt. But he is tired, and the touch to his shoulder is the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces at the realization that he’d nearly _attacked Isobel_. So Michael allows it, though he stands rigidly beneath Alex’s fingers, waiting for condemnation from the only family he’s got left.

“Michael, I --” 

“I think you should go home, Isobel,” Alex interrupts, tossing the words toward Michael’s sister backward, like he’s afraid that if he breaks eye contact, Michael will spin out again. Michael’s not so sure he’s wrong. “You both need to cool off before you talk again, especially about … this.” 

Isobel frowns, icy eyes narrowing on Alex. For a moment, Michael’s sure she’ll snap at him, demand to know who he thinks he is, to order her away from her own brother like some kind of underling, but Liz clears her throat. There’s another moment of uncertainty, and Michael braces himself for whatever might come next -- but there’s no guarding against Isobel. “I love you,” she tells him, a sad half-smile twisting her carefully lined lips. “But we are going to have to talk about this eventually.”

She and Liz leave together, then, talking in low voices with their heads bent against the wind. Michael could listen in, if he wanted, but he doesn’t try. Somehow, he hasn’t burned the last familial bridge he has left — and he knows he has Alex to thank for it. The women get into the SUV and close the doors, though they don’t leave; obviously, they’re waiting for Alex, who rode with them. 

“Hey,” Alex says a second time, pairing the word with a squeeze of Michael’s shoulder to regain his attention. “I’m not going to ask if you’re okay again,” he continues, his lips twitching in a self-recriminating smile. “Because I know you’re not. But I —” Michael watches Alex’s throat move as he swallows, as distracted as ever by the angles and curves of the other man’s body. “I need you to know that you’re not alone. I’ve been giving you space, because I know that my family is tangled up in a lot of the shit going on in your head right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m not here for you if you want me to be.” 

Michael literally trembles at the words. In that moment, he misses the red-hot rush of fury from earlier, because now he’s tired, hollowed-out and vulnerable in ways he’s been trying to avoid. The unexpected care from Alex is a balm against his grief and guilt, and though he knows he shouldn’t encourage this, shouldn’t allow Alex to think that there’s a chance for them now, he can’t stop himself from leaning into the warmth of the other man’s chest.

Alex meets him halfway and catches Michael’s hands between his own, holding tightly enough that Michael feels more steadily anchored to the here and now, but not tight enough that he feels trapped. Alex is the only one who could ever find that balance — no one else would even try. 

“I’m sorry,” Michael manages, pushing the words out through dangerously numb lips. The apology is a hoarse croak, but it’s understandable, and that’s all that matters. “I didn’t mean to — I couldn’t —” 

Alex shakes his head, a sad smile flickering at the edges of his mouth. “I get it,” he says quietly, brushing the pad of his thumb over the back of Michael’s knuckles with the barest pressure. “And Isobel will too, once she calms down a bit. Everyone knows this is a longshot.” 

Hearing about the desperate attempt to bring Max back from the dead isn’t something Michael’s interested in — not now, maybe not ever. He can’t explain how much he needs to move forward, can’t put into words why getting his hopes up only to have them dashed sounds like a death sentence, but he thinks that maybe Alex knows, or at least guesses, because he doesn’t push. 

“That’s not what I mean,” he tries to explain, because losing control of his powers puts everyone in the vicinity at risk. He’ll apologize to Isobel later, when he can stand the idea of being within two feet of her again, but Alex deserves to hear the words, too, especially since he’d been the one to step between Michael and the object of his emotional turmoil for a second time. Alex keeps saving him from himself, even when he doesn’t deserve it, and that’s the _least_ of the things Michael owes him an apology for.

“We’re family, Michael,” Alex says firmly. “No matter what else we are, or aren’t, that’s always going to be true. So just let me help, okay? Please?” 

Michael’s not strong enough to pull away from the embrace that comes next, so he slumps into Alex’s chest and allows himself to bask in the warmth of being held and cared for, just for a little while. 


	3. law vs. justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a little less angsty & ends on a much more hopeful note. the next section focuses more on michael's feelings about his mother/caulfield/how alex is tangled up in it all & less max. actually, this entire fic was supposed to have less max, buuut as usual, i can't enough of the dynamic between those guys.

Less than a month later, Michael’s slumped against the wall in the Chaves County Sheriff’s station. The view from the cell hasn’t changed since the day Michael and Isobel gave Max hell for healing Liz Ortecho in front of it, and the sight gives Michael a painful expectation of seeing his brother walking through the door at any moment, uniform and disappointed scowl in place, self-righteous lecture at the ready. But that’s not going to happen, so Michael’s swollen eyes are closed. The feeling of loss eases, if only a little, and keeping his eyelids shut helps against the steady throb in his cheek and ribs, too. 

It also allows him to ignore the look burning into him from the desk across the room, where his arresting officer sits. The young man is new, desperate to prove himself -- fuck, it actually looks like he’s _shined_ the badge on the front of his uniform. He’s wet behind the ears, too goddamned eager to show how much better he is than guys like Michael. 

Michael knows that’s why he’s still sitting here. Sheriff Valenti would’ve let him go by now, shaking her head at him in wordless disappointment, just as she had the last few times he’d found himself in here after Max’s death. This guy doesn’t give a shit about Michael’s grief, though. Doesn’t even know about it, since only a few have been told the truth. Kyle’d insisted on bringing his mom into the loop after Caulfield and discovering his father’s role in it, and Michael and Isobel had been too numb to argue for more than a few minutes. 

The sense of those eyes on him starts to chafe, and Michael forces his eyes open to meet the Deputy stare-for-stare. He knows the picture he paints: the black cowboy hat perched haphazardly on his head, the insolent tilt of of his chin and shoulders, the sprawling pose he’d adopted against the wall with his legs crossed in front of him. It’s an image he’s cultivated for the last decade of his life. The rebel. The drunk. The outcast, challenging anyone who dares to get too close. 

Most people never bother to look beyond the facade, and Michael usually prefers it that way. Today, though, it rubs him the wrong way. He’s used to Max being the one to pull him out of the drunk tank in the morning, accustomed to the lectures and the insistence that Michael is worth _more than this_ , more than the booze and the fights and the disappointment in everyone’s gazes when they looked at him. Those damned speeches had always made Michael homicidal; Max never seemed to understand that what they’d done to Rosa had killed any chance of a future for him just as surely as it had killed the girl herself. To Michael, Max had always seemed unaffected, infuriatingly numb to the truth of the crime they committed and immune to the consequences, and his insistence that Michael deserved to move forward, simply because _he_ had, only ever made Michael resent his brother.

Finally, the Deputy seems to have enough of their staring contest. Michael’s eyes flicker open at the scraping of a chair leg on the floor, and he watches with a blank expression as the man strides across the floor with the sort of bow-legged strut used men with more ego than common sense. He tips his chin back to meet the man’s gaze, squinting through the swelling around his eyes, but doesn’t move otherwise, letting the man come at him first, instead.

“So,” he says, and Michael’s eyes dart to the too-shiny badge on his chest. _Simmons._ The name is vaguely familiar, like all names in a town this small, but Michael doesn’t care enough to try to figure out where he’s heard it before. It’s not like it actually matters. “Your third bar brawl in two weeks. I’d be impressed, except that’s nothing for you, is it?”

The sneer in his words is expected, and Michael only rolls his eyes. “Slow week,” he drawls in reply, ignoring the shooting pain caused by moving his jaw. “I’ll make sure to throw a few more punches next week just for you.” 

Simmons huffs a disdainful laugh, and reaches back to take a stack of paperwork from his desk. “Unlikely,” he says, flipping a page in a file. “I know that you’re used to special treatment, Guerin, but I’m not Valenti. I don’t have a soft-touch for hopeless cases.” 

Michael snorts. “Yeah? You want to go tell her she’s a soft-touch to her face?” He doesn’t think much of the law, never has, but he knows that Michele Valenti is far from gentle. She’s fair, and usually pretty by-the-book, if Max is to be believed, but she’s as tough as nails when needed, and if Simmons hasn’t learned that yet -- well, Michael’s pretty sure the Sheriff will enjoy showing him how wrong he is. Michael can only hope he’s around to see it. 

Apparently, Simmons doesn’t like Michael’s flippancy. His brows draw downward into a pinched, angry expression, and he leans in close, close enough that Michael can see every carefully steamed inch of his impeccable uniform. The image jolts something loose in Michael’s mind, dragging unwanted memories of Max’s first days on the force to the front. 

Isobel had insisted on re-ironing Max’s slacks so they wouldn’t be wrinkled for his first shift. Michael’d been at Max’s for god-knew what reason, since he hadn’t even been able to look at his brother that soon after Rosa’s death -- but Michael had been there as Max put that uniform on for the first time, watched as determination filled his expression and inflated his chest and shoulders. Determination to make up for the wrongs he’d done, to atone for the sins he’d committed by helping others, as if he could somehow undo the horrible thing they’d done with good intentions. 

Michael had burned with fury at Max’s naivete, with jealousy, for his ability to move forward when Michael himself was stuck, suspended in that moment, day after day. 

It’s funny. Michael had always thought that the year after Rosa’s death was rock bottom -- yet here he is, still trapped, still furious and heartbroken, with no one to blame but himself. 

“You’re going down this time, Guerin. Assault, at the very least. That guy you were beating on had broken ribs, and there’s no way he’s going to drop the charges -- and I will personally see to it that someone claps you in cuffs and throws you in a cell to rot.” Simmons slams his hand against the bars, hard enough to make the entire cell rattle, and Michael blinks away the remnants of the memory to look back at Max’s replacement, lips curled in a sneer. Blood trickles from a split that hadn’t quite closed, yet and down his chin, but Michael doesn’t move to wipe it away. 

“That what gets you off? Guys in handcuffs?” he drawls. “I’m flattered, officer, but you’re not really my type.” And that is an understatement. In fact, comparing Simmons to Alex is an actual insult, as far as Michael is concerned -- not that he should be thinking of Alex right now. Or ever. 

Simmons’ face flushes with anger, and Michael allows himself a small, triumphant smirk. He knows he’s signing his own arrest warrant with his behavior, but he’s known that for weeks. Eventually, all of his sins would catch up with him, and he’s done trying to outrun them. 

Much to Michael’s regret, Simmons gets ahold of his temper quickly; his hands clench at his sides, and there’s a vein throbbing visibly beneath his carefully tousled blond bangs, but his voice is calm, almost cloying pleasant, when he speaks again. “Ah, well that explains things, doesn’t it?” he muses, and the knowing tone in his voice makes Michael wants to punch him hard enough to break that Colgate smile. “I knew Evans was disappearing your paperwork - every time someone tried to prosecute you, it would all just vanish, or the plaintiff would just suddenly withdraw all charges. It was obviously Evans -- I just hadn’t been able to figure out why he’d risk his career like that on a nobody like you.”

Michael struggles to make sense of that information, tries to fumble it into the schema of his and Max’s relationship for the last decade, but the pieces don’t fit. Max had always been the goody-two shoes, so by-the-book in dealing with Michael’s indiscretions that it is impossible to believe that he’d literally been tampering with the paperwork to keep him out of jail. Michael had always just thought Max had pulled in favors with Valenti, or used the ‘old friend’ card over and over -- but _this_? Had Max really gone to such extreme lengths to keep Michael out of jail?

“But if you two were fucking before he skipped town, well. That makes a hell of a lot more sense, doesn’t it?” 

White-hot rage greys out Michael’s vision, and he’s on his feet against the bars before his mind catches up with the instinct. The feeling is senseless; the insane assumption should be something he laughs at, uses to deride Simmons’ detective work, but Michael can’t summon any humor or snark to throw at him. Hearing Max’s name from his asshole replacement is too much, and Michael’s had all he can take. Power builds in his hands where they’re pressed against the cold metal of the bars, humming through him and causing a ringing, metallic buzz to echo through the small room.

He can’t do this. He has to stop, needs to push the power down and keep it hidden, but Michael’s so removed from his own body in that moment that he can practically look down at himself and see the tension turning into a wavering aura of power in the small cell. 

“That’s _enough,_ ” a harsh voice snaps, and both Michael and Simmons’ attention shifts immediately to Alex Manes. He’s looming in the open doorway, blocking all view to the administrative section of the office, an air of authority around his camo-covered shoulders that makes Michael’s breath catch in his throat.

In some ways, Alex is as familiar to him as the parts of his truck, or the smooth surface of the ship fragments he spends his nights with, but while he wears that uniform and that particular expression -- the one that not only demands instant obedience but expects it -- Michael can’t help but feel like he’s staring at a stranger. And after years of limited contact and heartbreak, that’s likely how it _should_ be. Michael almost wishes it could be that simple. Instead, he’s fairly certain that despite everything, he could still pick Alex out of a crowd of millions from miles away. Something in his chest always thrills to Alex’s presence, drawing Michael’s gaze to him even when Alex is the last person he wants to see. 

“What the hell are you doing back here, Manes?” Simmons demands, crossing his hands over his chest and straightening his shoulders in an obvious effort to look intimidating. He’s got an inch and several pounds of muscle on Alex, so it should work, but in comparison to Alex’s hard expression and relaxed but ready body language, Simmons is nothing. Alex certainly doesn’t think so; he stares fearlessly back at the Deputy and raises an eyebrow, a challenge inherent in the minuscule movement. 

“That’s _Captain_ Manes, actually,” Alex corrects definitively. “And I’m here because the guy he hit—” Alex nods toward Michael. “— is Air Force. He’s being reassigned effective Monday morning with a black mark for excessive drinking and brawling in public, so he won’t be pressing charges.” 

Alex presents a set of papers to the Deputy with a flourish, a hint of the attitude Michael had fallen in love with a decade ago shining through in the movement. Simmons gives him a long, hard look, then snatches the papers from his hands, all but tearing them with unnecessary force. While he reads, Alex looks around him to Michael, a silent query on his face.

Michael blinks slowly, taking stock of his body and the energy that has receded somewhat at the sight of Alex. He’s sober enough to wonder, this time, if he’ll always have this reaction to the other man -- if he’s doomed to only ever feel calm and safe around someone who’s so tangled up in some of the most negative, traumatic experiences of his life that Michael doesn’t know how to separate Alex’s comforting grip with the vice around his heart when he thinks of Caulfield. Of his _mother._

Right now, he can almost convince himself it doesn’t matter. Michael’s too relieved to see Alex, too grateful for his intervention, to feel anything else.Taking a long, slow breath, Michael peels his fingers away from the bars of the cell and takes a step back. The metallic hum in the room stops completely, and as long as Alex gets him out of there without Simmons making any more comments about the kind of man Max was, Michael thinks he can avoid this situation turning into more of a disaster.

“The military doesn’t have any jurisdiction in Roswell,” Simmons says a moment later, his chest once again puffing out in righteous indignation. “Guerin’s been picked up three times in the last two weeks for the same offense. We don’t need your guy to press charges; I’ve got plenty of evidence to keep him in lock-up.” 

Alex’s eyes narrow, and Michael almost feels sorry for Simmons. _Almost._

“Really.” The word is flat, loaded with insinuation. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that you lost out on the position at this station to Max Evans? And then lost out on the last open position for Evans’ partner because he said he didn’t want to work with you?” Alex’s expression is carefully blank, but Michael can read him well enough to know that he’s ready to go for the throat. 

It shouldn’t surprise Michael that there are large chunks of Max’s life he knows nothing about. The two of them hadn’t been able to get past what happened to Rosa and the way it was handled, and that crack had led to nearly complete fragmentation in the intervening years. There’s no chance of fixing it, now, no way of knowing if they could have regained the closeness they’d shared for so long, because Max is _dead --_ but somehow, Michael is still learning things about his brother that make him want to put his fist through a wall. How many times had Max risked his career for Michael by destroying documents and evidence? How many people had he run off from the position as his partner to protect Michael? And _why_ had he done it? Protecting their secret is one thing, but fuck, how is Michael supposed to take that information in stride?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simmons blusters, but Michael can tell the Deputy knows that he’s been beaten. Alex doesn’t go to battle without all of the facts on his side, without an ironclad plan, and Simmons had lost before they’d even begun. 

Alex snorts. “Sure I don’t,” he says amicably. “Why don’t we ask Sheriff Valenti, then? If all of your evidence on Guerin is by the book? I’m sure she’d be happy to back up one of her deputies and kick me out, if that’s the case.” 

Michael doesn’t know if Alex is bluffing, which almost certainly means Simmons can’t tell, either. He waits, aware that he should be more concerned about the outcome of this grudge match than he is, until Simmons growls, “Fine. Get him out of here. But the next time --” 

“You’ll throw him in cuffs and leave him to rot, yeah, I got it,” Alex interrupts, his tone suggesting that if he weren’t in uniform, he’d be rolling his eyes. “Keys.” 

Simmons slaps the keys to the cell into Alex’s extended palm and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael watches, silent, as Alex allows his airman persona to fade back into the gentler, less composed version of himself. “I hacked the cameras before I came in, just in case,” he says, and gestures at the lock on the cell. “You still need me to let you out?” 

A moment later, Michael has released the latch on the cell with a tendril of thought and stands in front of Alex, chin raised daringly as dark eyes take in his injuries. “We should go before that guy comes back,” is all he says, and Michael trails him out of the precinct and into the cool night air. Michael takes a deep breath and slouches back against the wall, eying Alex. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say or what’s expected of him now; hell, he doesn’t know how to interact with Alex on a good day, anymore. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Michael says after a moment, the words stiff. Anger would have been better, but Michael can’t seem to summon it back now that it’s gone. “It would’ve been fine.” 

Alex shoots him a skeptical glance, but doesn’t argue. “I’m going to take that as Guerin speak for, ‘thanks for getting me out of jail,’” he snipes, and hits a button on his keychain, making his SUV blink its lights from a block down. “Come on. Your truck is still at the Pony, I’m guessing? I’ll give you a ride and you can pick it up tomorrow.” 

There isn’t much chance to argue, or Michael’s too tired to try. He trails Alex into the SUV, grateful despite himself for the unwavering presence at his side. His brain is still trying to process the fact that Max, despite ten years of distance and resentment, had still been protecting him. It’s a bizarre juxtaposition with the assumption that Max had only ever done anything to protect him in order to protect their secret. Max had fucked up so many times over the years: he’d left Michael alone and scared in foster care, had only listened as Michael whispered confessions of pain and fear of the families he lived with as a child, had pushed him into taking the blame for Isobel’s crimes and allowed him to give up on the one chance at a future he had -- 

Michael hates looking backward, and hates the fact that he understands Max so much better now that he’s gone. His brother had never been human, but he was as flawed as any of them, and yes, he had made mistakes. But how many of those mistakes had seemed unforgivable because of Michael’s own unhappiness? How much of his resentment toward Max had sprung from Max falling from the pedestal Michael had put him on? 

The hand that had, until recently, been numb and scarred, flexes against his thigh. Michael will never know what Max was thinking, that night. He’ll never be able to ask questions, or try to mend the rift that he’d helped created between them. 

Michael will never have a brother again, and the loss feels fresh, now, as if the experience with Simmons had ripped a new wound over the infected one still oozing in his chest. 

“Michael,” Alex says quietly, catching his attention more effectively than if he’d stood up and yelled. It’s rare to hear his first name from Alex, rarer still to hear it in a tone that borders on affection. They’ve avoided that sort of relationship for years, both aware that they’re in the middle of a balancing act, and one wrong move could send them careening over the edge into a world of hurt. “You’ve got to stop doing this. I’m not going to be able to use the same tricks next time, and . . .” he trails off, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he psyches himself up for whatever else he has to say. “And Max isn’t here to stop them from making sure you end up in prison.”

The words emerge in a rush, so quick that Michael has to let them process before he understands why Alex is so nervous. No one who mentioned his brother had walked away unscathed, lately; it was a surefire way to send Michael spiralling. 

But it hurts less, somehow, hearing the truth from Alex. Maybe because he knows that Alex understands grief, understands the feeling of anger that follows in the wake of abandonment, or because he knows Alex isn’t throwing words around to hurt him. So Michael doesn’t react; he simply turns his head to look out the window and watches the New Mexican desert fly by. 

It’s clear that Alex doesn’t know how to read Michael’s silence. He rushes on, obviously determined to get the words out before Michael loses his temper. “Think about it, Michael. If they get you in a jail cell, how long is it going to take before your cellmates, or a guard, or someone realizes that there’s something different about you? What if you get hurt and sent to medical? Who’s going to stop them from doing tests and figuring out that you’re not human? My father would _love_ that kind of opportunity, Guerin. Please, for the love of god, don’t give it to him.”

Michael swallows, an old fear rising in his gut as he considers the scenario Alex spins for him. Jesse Manes. Experimentation. Tortured, like his mother and the rest of those poor souls hidden away at Caulfield prison. He shudders, hands digging into his jeans hard enough that his nails score the tender skin beneath. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Alex’s hand is resting over the back of his left one, a gentle slide of skin that makes it easier for Michael to breathe. He almost misses the tremble in Alex’s fingers, caught up in his own emotions, but it’s there, and impossible to ignore. Michael glances up at Alex, surprised to see an anxiety nearly matching his own on his face, and wonders how often he’s ignored the way the people around him are feeling in favor of drowning in his own feelings. 

Michael flips his hand and squeezes Alex’s back, and triumph sparks in his chest when he catches the barest hint of a smile flash across full lips. 

“I know you don’t want to talk, okay, I get it. Believe me, I get it.” Alex’s words, when he speaks again, are full of rueful self-recrimination, and again Michael is struck by his own selfishness. He’s not the only one mired in trauma and hurt. But despite his own pain, despite the way Michael has treated him, Alex has been there when MIchael needs him. Every damn time. 

“But the way you’ve been acting lately -- shit, Guerin, it’s fucking terrifying. The drinking is one thing, but the fighting? The total disregard for your own health and well-being? That’s not what Max would’ve wanted for you. Do you think he spent the last decade of his life bailing you out of jail because he wanted you to rot there? Do you think your mother died convincing you to _run_ because she wanted you to die out here instead?”

Michael’s fists clench in his lap, but his powers don’t react. This is Alex, after all, the calm in the middle of his storm, and something in Michael refuses to allow anything that might bring him harm. He grits his teeth against the spiral of guilt and shame that threatens at Alex’s words, and reaches for the door handle, ignoring the fact that the car is still moving. Alex shouts and slams on the breaks, leaving them both startled and staring at each other across the console between their seats. 

“I just want to _help_ , Guerin,” Alex says, obviously biting back a furious comment at Michael’s stupidity. “I’m not asking you to love me, or date me, or whatever it is you’re so set against. I just want to make sure you don’t end up dissected or left to rot in one of my father’s torture chambers. Can’t you just let me?” 

The fight rushes out of Michael with a long breath, and he slumps back in the car seat. His head tips to one side, and he looks straight at Alex with a resigned, wary expression. “That’s the problem, Alex,” he says dully. “I _do_ love you.” As much as he could love anyone at the moment. “But I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.” Maybe not ever. 

Alex’s face is washed pale yellow in the headlights of an oncoming car, and Michael doesn’t miss the hurt etched into the lines of his face, though it’s gone in a moment. 

“I’m not asking you to do anything about it,” Alex says quietly. “I’m asking you to come back to my place tonight, get some sleep, and eat an actual meal in the morning. We can figure out where to go from there.” One large hand rests on the gear shift lever, waiting for Michael’s go-ahead before he puts it into drive. 

Michael hesitates, part of him determined to climb out the door and trudge back to the Airstream to suffer through another night alone. But fighting Alex never gets him anywhere, and Michael’s tired of trying to stand on his own. If Max’s loss has taught him anything, aside from the fact that he does care about the self-sacrificing dumbass, it’s that Alex meant it, when he called Michael his family. And maybe, on a night like tonight, it’s not so wrong to want that support, no matter how selfish it feels.

So instead of following his instincts to run, Michael catches Alex’s eye and nods. 


End file.
